Mishaps, Bloopers and Mayhem

There are many things that can go right on a road trip.  You can catch the perfect stretch of road, come across unexpected treats, meet new people.  I am not writing about those things.  This is an exposition, nay, an homage, to all the dumb things that happen on the American Highways.

Yes, that says 106. No, it isn't lying.

While putting the bike through its paces after its time at the mechanic, I decided to go south to the Mexican Border.  I had this idea that I would ride down to Mexico and then up to Canada.  To be honest, it was probably not well thought out.  I headed south in rush hour.  I know, I know.  I got caught in traffic and construction and ended up getting turned around. 

My solution was to hop back onto the Freeway and see where I would end up.  I hit the bottom of the on ramp and there it was.  A sign that said “Next Exit: Mexico”.  For your information, that means there is no more US.  I turned back up the on ramp, hopped the curb and headed up the berm back to the good old US of A.  While I realize that what I had done is wildly illegal, judging by the fact that there was a path cut through the landscaping I wasn’t the first to make this mistake.

The event planner is not amused.

This was the first of many instances of me getting turned around or lost.  For better or worse, I was on a motorcycle.  I didn’t have a GPS unit.  I had a prepaid Virgin Smartphone that worked when and if it wanted.  It came in handy when it did work but there was no guarantee.  Each night I would map out my route for the next day and log it in my travel journal so I did have a preplanned route.  I would promptly forget where I was going every morning. 

I got turned around going through San Francisco.  I got lost going to Gilroy.  I got lost three times on the way to Crater Lake.  I damn near got lost in the farmlands just outside my hometown.  I was in a caravan through Idaho and Montana and we did pretty well.  Fortunately it is quite difficult to get lost out on the plains.  I made up for it by getting lost in Minneapolis over and over again.

Does it make Argyle milk?

* * *

There are very few things as humiliating as dropping your motorcycle.  I had a couple of drops, fortunately slow easy ones.  I was in the parking lot of an O’Reilly’s in California and had just picked up a quart of motorcycle oil.  I had parked right in front of a sign that said “No working on vehicles in the parking lot” and I was feeling uppity.  Tell me not to work on my bike.  You are an auto parts store, of course I am going to work on my bike in your parking lot.  Normally when I check and fill the oil, I put the bike on the center stand like a reasonable, intelligent human being would.  This time I left it on the kickstand because I was busy fighting the power. 

Well, the handlebars were blocking the dipstick so I turned the handlebars.  BMW F650’s are known for having a very upright resting position.  I know this.  I turned around to pick up the oil and just bumped the bike.  When I turned back towards the motorcycle it was just starting to tip.  I tossed the quart of oil, which was fortunately still closed, and grabbed the handlebars and rear grab bars.  I was too late to stop the fall, but I did manage to slow it enough that it gently rested on the ground.  I heaved the bike upright and looked inside the store where all the staff watched my misadventure with rapt attention. 

Dammit Montana, how am I supposed to sleep now?

I dropped the bike again in Idaho while trying to load it into my dad’s truck.  Once again, I managed to slow the fall somewhat but this time I smashed my right calf in the process.  The third drop came in Minnesota as I was washing the bike.  I didn’t want to wash it in the driveway because it was covered with 4000 miles of grease, grime, dead bugs and road schmegma.  I had the bike up on the center stand (who says I don’t learn my lesson?) and was hosing down the bike.  The curb was uneven and the water washed just enough of the bike’s footing away and down it went.  This time, I wasn’t able to catch it.  Nothing a new turn signal off Ebay couldn’t fix.

* * *

Despite a few close calls I never wiped out on the trip.  There was the turn in the Redwoods that almost got me and the Oregon driver who tried to run me off the road.  I never actually hit the ground until I pulled off the road in South Dakota to camp.  I was exhausted and had just done roughly 550 miles that day.  I went off road down a heavily rutted two track at a steep grade to get to the creek I was supposed to camp at.

Post Indo Camping Session

Like most times something dumb happens, I wasn’t riding or being careful like normal.  When riding a heavily rutted road down a steep grade, you keep your feet off the pegs and keep yourself upright.  Or in my case, keep feet on pegs and when the bike tips, launch yourself down the hill like the proverbial sack of potatoes.  The bike hit at just the right angle and actually was held up by my pack.  I plotzed down the hill and had to strip out of my gear and lever the bike back up.  After that, I admitted defeat and walked the bike down the hill and did a field strip to make sure it was running fine.  If I am going to wreck this was the best case scenario by far. 

When you are on a motorcycle for 8-10 hours a day, you spend way too much time in your own head.  I told myself jokes.  I sang along to Neal Diamond and David Bowie.  I thought up crazy ideas like writing a series of children’s books that correspond with the travel blog.  I contemplated smart ass comments to put in said travel blog.  Whenever possible all these thoughts, ideas and time killing actions have made it into my travel journal. 

* * *

One of the goofiest things that happened on the road involved my camelpack.  No, not the slap and tickle.  That was earlier.  I got in the habit of taking a mouthful of water and swishing it around to get rid of the taste of dead cat and deader fast food that would develop while riding.  I was happily cruising along at 70 mph and swishing away when I coughed, spraying a mouthful of dead cat water across the inside of my helmet.  I managed to keep the bike going in the right direction and cracked my visor a bit to dry out the inside of my sun shade and visor.  If I did swerve a bit, I blame it on the fact that I was hysterically laughing during the whole recovery. 

I don't even know what to say...

When I needed to stretch my legs, I would stand up on the pegs and sit on top of my pack.  This gave me enough positional variation that I didn’t have a ton of cramping issues.  During this adjustment, it was common for my shirt to come un-tucked from my pants.  Not a big deal most of the time.  Somewhere in South Dakota I was stretching and a bee got caught in the folds of my shirt and proceeded to sting me just above my right kidney.  Once again, I didn’t eat pavement but I did exercise my broad knowledge of profanity.

Lobotomy

I had purchased new armored motorcycle riding pants just for this trip.  I had them all adjusted nicely at the beginning but didn’t think about how they would wear in.  I was riding through northern California and stretched my legs in the fashion just described.  But when I stood on the pegs, the newly stretched waistband caught on my pack and pulled down my pants and boxers leaving me somewhere between serious plumber’s crack and full blown mooning the minivan that was following me.  On the bright side, they waved as they passed when I pulled over to fix my wardrobe malfunction.

* * *

Molly and I just recently binge-watched the show True Blood.  There is a notable scene where Jason gets kidnapped by a pack of inbred werepanthers, doped up on Viagra and gang raped by all the women in the pack in an attempt to improve their genetic diversity.  I nearly had a similar experience in Eastern South Dakota.  It was the afternoon of July Fourth and everyone had already been drinking.  I was about 30 miles from Western Minnesota and I stopped for gas.

Loser buys the beer and gets a Tetanus shot

I came out of the gas station and there were a group of young women checking out my bike.  This wasn’t the first time I met people curious about the trip and I greeted them warmly.  They were very inebriated and wanted me to come party.  I declined and they wanted to take pictures.  Then pictures of me with the bike.  Then why didn’t I want to come party with them?  After passing up the opportunity to party again, there were more pictures, this time with the girls hugging me.  And not letting go until it was VERY awkward.  And I was asked if I wanted to party again. 

One girl regaled me about having never left the state of South Dakota, which started a fierce argument.  Apparently, she had been to Minneapolis as a kid with her friend.  Never mind the fact that we were thirty miles from the Minnesota border.  They wanted to know if I had  gone through the Black Hills.  When I replied that I had, they were quite impressed.  On the bright side, the drunker of the them did remember her childhood trip there.  She loves her state.  She loves the corn growing behind the truck stop.  She reaaally loved my bike.  Can she have a ride?  Unfortunately, I am leaving the state, which you have a strong aversion to.  And speaking of which, I must be going.  Right now.

When I told Molly this story she was laughing hysterically and I quote: “You almost got Werepanthered!”  The sympathy was somewhat lacking.